EBNHC

by Mike Jewett


Time is moving memories into waves. She sat
in stirrups, cornflower paper gown not enough to
stop her from feeling exposed. She had a stomachache.
The dead seat cold on her flesh. Green shirt matching

startled emerald eyes. The room was lonely; her
and the MD. her and Him. Overhead lights
staring unapologetically. Outside, the desolate ER;
Latino patients half-watching annoyed niños. She’s
growing languescent with his rooting around
inside her vagina, nitrile examination gloves spreading

her labia, fore and middle fingers sliding in and out,
in and out. Procedures for stomachaches. Kimberly
Clark would have blushed. She’s decaying, scent
of a woman filling the air, and he smiles at her

pussy in a way that makes the halls shudder, his
ambergris breath staining the jaundiced wallpaper.
Every thought she has is a colored polygon
and, when puzzled together, they coalesce
into a stained glass featurette. Her ideas are totems
draining aquifers. Insurance foots the procedure.

What’s the billing code for rape? Should she have
an HMO or a PPO? He becomes a charcoal drawing,
his handshake the bitter end of a clove hitch recalled
in musk-scented heat. If she could just disengage.

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